


Not Quite a Fairy Tale

by 15Acesplz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demisexual Enjolras, Laundromat, Laundry, M/M, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Acesplz/pseuds/15Acesplz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do I make for easy looking?” His voice was gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used for hours, and his words dripped with sarcasm.</p>
<p>Enjolras flushed. Without meaning to, he’d been staring. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Should you be smoking in here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite a Fairy Tale

Enjolras had never been to a laundromat before, and needless to say, he was a bit apprehensive. He’d heard bad things about laundromats, almost all of them from Joly, who had said that ironically enough, general cleanliness wasn’t much of a priority in a laundromat. But Enjolras’s washing machine had been broken for a week and he was getting desperate.

So, Tuesday morning at a quarter past seven saw him stepping into the nearest laundromat, laden with bags of clothing. It was just as grimy as Joly had promised, and there was only one other person there.

He was leaning back against a rumbling washing machine, wearing threadbare jeans, a T-shirt that was more holes than shirt and bore numerous flecks of paint, and a grey knit cap – no, wait: it was white and severely unwashed. Enjolras’s eyes trailed down from the cap to the dark hair, lank with grease but unmistakably curly, to the green eyes framed in bruise-purple circles of fatigue, to the crooked nose, to the thin lips, from which a cigarette dangled, to the patchy beard and shadow of stubble on the man’s jaw. He looked to be in his twenties.

When he spoke, it was a surprise to Enjolras. “Do I make for easy looking?” His voice was gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used for hours, and his words dripped with sarcasm.

Enjolras flushed. Without meaning to, he’d been staring. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Should you be smoking in here?”

His mouth twitched briefly in something like a smile. “That’s a good question. _Should_ I be smoking in here? Should I be smoking at all? What matters more – health or pleasure? Aren’t both meaningless, in the grand scheme of things? So should I be smoking in here? Should anyone be doing anything? Why bother?” And to end his speech, he took a pointed drag from the cigarette.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. _Smartass._ He walked past the man, his nose in the air, and picked a free machine opposite him, leaving the laundromat table between them. Five minutes later he was staring at the seven dials on the washer, completely baffled. Cursing his bad luck and social ineptitude, he swallowed his pride and cleared his throat. Cigarette Asshole looked up.

“Um,” Enjolras started awkwardly, “I’ve never been here before.”

“I could have guessed as much,” he said with a smirk. His tone, the same tone he’d used before, was infuriating.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras demanded sharply, briefly forgetting his purpose.

“You don’t exactly look the type.”

“And what, pray tell, is the type?”

“Families of eight. Old people who can’t afford to retire. Single unemployed middle aged men.” He spread his hands out, gesturing to himself. “Starving artists with two-room apartments. I’m just saying, you look like the kind of person who would own a washer.”

“Well, I do own a washer. But it’s broken and so I’m here. And… I’m not entirely sure how to work the machine.”

The guy’s face split into a wicked grin. “Well, well, would you look at that,” he drawled. “The pitiable rich grad student finds himself lost and bewildered in the new, frightening jungle of the laundromat, in need of rescue. It’s almost like a fairytale. Don’t worry; Gallant Grantaire has arrived to save the day with all his skill and cunning, along with a few unnecessary flourishes of chauvinism.”

For all his talk, once he’d sauntered over to Enjolras’s machine, the first cigarette gone and a fresh one held between two fingers, the man – Grantaire, was it? – simply turned the first four dials each a certain length, ignored the other three, and punched a button that miraculously made the washer start. “That should do it alright.” His expression turned mischievous again as he glanced Enjolras’s way. “Unless you’re washing delicates?”

Enjolras scowled, a hot blush rising in his face. “No, I’m not. Thank you for your help. I think we’re done here,” he said stiffly.

Grantaire shrugged. “If you say so.” He loped back to his machine, resettling in his original pose.

Minutes passed in silence before Enjolras started to ask, “How did you know I’m –”

“– A rich grad student?” Grantaire cut in. “Well, let’s see. You’re my age, so you might be a student, and students my age are in grad school. And it seals the deal that you’re already up and about and it’s not even eight in the morning. No one, literally no one, pulls shit like that except insane scholarly students.”

“You’re up and about, too,” Enjolras pointed out.

“I don’t count; I never went to bed. And as for the rich part,” he continued, and jerked his chin at Enjolras’s torso, “ _that’s_ your last resort outfit.”

Enjolras looked down at what he was wearing. It had been one of the few suitable things he could find to wear, and it wasn’t anything special – a white T-shirt, skinny jeans he barely wore, and his favorite red jacket. Then again, he thought, with a glance at Grantaire’s cap, the shirt was still white. “Well,” he said eventually, “you’re right about all of that.”

“Course I am.” He exhaled a stream of smoke. “You’re not exactly difficult to read.”

Enjolras’s brow crinkled. He was a bit thrown by… well, everything about this man. But he seemed friendly, in his own odd way, so Enjolras didn’t mind that they kept talking. He told Grantaire about his studies, and asked what he’d studied in university. The answer was his most succinct yet: “Dropped out.” He didn’t say anything else about it and Enjolras didn’t try to make him. Instead he went on about his pet avocation, the Friends of the ABC, and got into a healthily heated debate about activism and why it matters. Grantaire’s opinion was clear. “It should matter, but it doesn’t,” he kept saying, about every subject Enjolras breached from environmentalism to socialism to LGBT+ rights. Clearly, Grantaire had a jaded view of the world. Enjolras thought that maybe he ought to have expected that from a self-proclaimed starving artist who didn’t sleep and chain-smoked at the laundromat.

The morning wore on, and more people had arrived by the time both of their clothes were in the dryer. Enjolras saw that Grantaire had been exactly right about the consumer base of the laundromat. They kept talking, but in lower voices. Grantaire had nonchalantly moved his laundry from the washer on the other side of the room to a dryer next to Enjolras’s, and when his were done and Enjolras’s were still drying, he dumped them onto the table and started to fold them. Enjolras suspected he usually didn’t do that. He didn’t mind. He was finding that he liked Grantaire, however frustrating and confusing he might be. Grantaire lingered as long as he could once all his clothes were folded with unnecessary care. It was nearing midday, and the laundromat was almost empty again.

“Well, uh, see ya. Or, I guess not, since you’ll probably have your own washer again soon.” He smiled ruefully.

“Have you got a pen?” Enjolras asked. He was surprised at the words coming from his own mouth, but he stuck by them and waited for a response.

Grantaire was digging in his pocket. There seemed to be an absurd amount of small items in it. At last he unearthed a pen and held it out.

Enjolras took it, and caught Grantaire’s hand before he could lower it. On the palm of his hand he wrote his phone number and his name. “Text me, if you have anything interesting to say.” _You usually do,_ he stopped himself adding.

He stared at his hand, mouthing, _Enjolras._ Enjolras realized he’d never given his name. Grantaire smiled. “Thanks… Enjolras. Well… bye.”

With expressive green eyes locked on his, it was all Enjolras could manage to stutter out, “Bye,” in return. Grantaire left.

Enjolras didn’t know why he’d given him his number. Courfeyrac would probably wiggle his eyebrows and say something suggestive. But it was more complicated than that. It had become apparent that it was always more complicated than that for Enjolras. He felt something, but it wasn’t exactly attraction. Friendly interest, maybe, with a whisper of potential that made it a bit different. And suddenly he was laughing to himself, because all he could think of was Grantaire’s version of a fairy tale, and how he himself would be a rather poor target for love at first sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Did the world need another exr meet-cute from me? No. Did I write another one? Yes.   
> And I looked it up; both laundromats and public smoking restrictions exist in Paris.  
> I love comments? :)


End file.
